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BY  THE  BAY 


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BY  THE  BAY 

BY  LUCIA  ETTA  LORING  (SMITH) 

THE  FRONTISPIECE 

FROM  A  BAS-RELIEF  MODELED  BY 

BRADETTA  L.  SMITH 


PAUL  ELDER  &>  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  •  SAN  FRANCISCO 


The  author  desires  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy 
extended  by  The  Sunset  Magazine,  Overland 
Monthly  and  Once  a  Week,  in  granting  permis 
sion  to  reprint  several  of  the  poems  included  in 
this  little  volume. 

Copyright,  1909 
by  Lucia  E.  Loring  ( Smith) 


TO  T.  W.  C. 


A  LIST  OF  THE  VERSES 


Page 

The  Three  Islands  ...  1 
Dawn  on  the  Bay  ...  2 

Vespertine 3 

The  Miracle  of  Day ...    4 

The  Mirage 5 

The  Demon  Cloud    ...    6 

Opaline 7 

The  Lone  Tree  ....  8 
The  City  of  a  Thousand 

Eyes 9 

A  Fancy 10 

Moonlight  on  the  Bay  .  .11 
In  the  Shadow  .  .  .  .12 
The  Two  Mountains  .  .  13 
When  Portola  Came  .  .14 
The  Eternal  Verdure  .  .  15 

Tamalpais 16 

A  Question 17 

Copa  de  Oro 18 

El  Camino  Real  .  .  .  .19 
The  Old  Guitar-Player  .  20 
The  Spanish  Dancer  .  .21 
ToaFieldofEschscholtzias  22 
The  Pressed  Flower  .  .  23 

On  the  Hill 24 

The  Pause 25 

The  Secret 26 

Demi-jour 27 

A  Nocturne 28 

The  One  Star  .  .  29 


Page 

Portola 30 

The  Deserted  Cabin  .  .31 
The  Lure  of  the  Wind  .  .  32 

The  Rival 34 

The  Rising  Fog    ....  35 

In  Lent 36 

Easter  in  San  Francisco  .  37 
The  Earthquake  Babe  .  .  38 
California  Violets ....  39 
In  Chinatown  Slums  .  .  40 
On  the  Road  to  Sausalito .  41 
The  Human  Heart  ...  42 

The  Marsh 43 

Nightfall 44 

A  Sequoia  Nun  ....  45 
Woodland  Lovers  ...  46 
St.  Dorothy's  Rest  ...  47 
The  Woodsman  ....  48 
Snow  on  Tamalpais  ...  49 
At  Bracken  Brae  ....  50 

Kinship 51 

The  Old  Trail 52 

Woodland  Gossip  ...  53 
Ambition  and  Duty  ...  54 
The  Eagle  Dance  ...  55 
The  High  Sierras  ...  56 
The  Japanese  Wind-bell  .  57 

Posing 58 

The  Sierras 59 

The  West  .  .     .  60 


THE  THREE  ISLANDS 


the  Bay  three  islands  rest, 
The  same  hued  verdure  on  each  breast, 
The  same  glad  waves  caress  each  one, 
Yet  hope  begins,  exists,  is  done, 

As  each  its  separate  mission  fills, 

Obedient  as  the  Government  wills. 

Upon  the  Island  of  To  Be, 

The  youthful  patriot  trains  for  sea. 

The  Isle  of  Welcome  greets  with  joy 

The  home-returning  soldier  boy. 

The  third  Isle  buries  in  its  breast        ;  :  %  .  ,  .   . 

The  privileges  men  deem  best,  :..:  i'-i 

And  life  is  tragic;  hope  grows  faint,"'  .\  :    \  \\';'\ 

Upon  the  Island  of  Restraint. 


DAWN  ON  THE  BAY 

SILVER  Bay  within  gray  slopes 

That  circling  girt  it  round, 
Unclasped  but  at  the  ocean's  throat 

To  greet  the  harbour-bound. 
Above  it  veiling  fog,  low-hung, 

Broods  over  city  towers, 
Awaiting  in  a  calm  suspense 
The  miracle  of  hours. 

There  comes  a  rippling  wave  of  light 

Across  the  distance  gray, 
A  sunj-kissed  peak  uplifts  its  head 

;  To  greet  the  dawn  of  day. 
'f;;;Tte  fog,;from  sun-lit  massacre, 

Flees  all  along  the  line, 
The  dancing  Bay  is  flushed  and  gay 
With  the  hues  of  native  wine. 


2 


VESPERTINE 

VESPERTINE  tinting  of  copper  and 

gold 

Gilded  the  low-tide  waterways, 
And  burnished  schooners  through  the 

haze 

Swept  to  their  moorings  gleaming  and  bold. 
A  rosy  mist  came  streaking  in 
Above  the  clustered  glistening  spires, 
And  over  the  glow  of  the  dead  day's  fires 
It  spread  a  length  like  a  garment  thin. 
The  business  houses  were  blank  and  chilled, 
They  looked  on  throughfares  hushed  as  the  dead, 
For  noisy  venders  like  wraiths  had  fled, 
The  hum  of  the  city's  traffic  was  stilled. 
Like  a  gilded  moth  in  its  dying  throes 
Was  the  summer  day  at  its  peaceful  close. 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  DAY 

IGHT  up  your  fires,  O  Sun  god! 

For  lo,  a  day  is  born, 
And  swathed  in  roseate  tintings 

Behold  the  infant  morn! 

Light  up  your  fires,  O  Sun  god ! 

For  lo,  a  day  has  fled, 
And  lies,  all-glorious  mantled, 

As  lie  the  honored  dead. 

The  sacrificial  fires 

Flame  all  the  western  way, 
And  human  thought  outreaches 

To  realms  of  Endless  Day. 


THE  MIRAGE 

'T  SUNDOWN,  on  a  Berkeley  height 
A  field  of  poppies  shimmered  bright, 
With  sleepy  flutter  and  drowsy  bend, 
Foretelling  day  was  near  an  end. 
The  sun's  reflected  poppy  hue 
Illumined  all  the  distant  view, 
And  far  across  the  golden  Bay 
Rose  in  mirage  that  earlier  day ; 
A  line  of  Fathers  winding  down 
With  naked  followers,  lean  and  brown, 
And  placed  by  one  forgotten,  dead, 
The  Mountain's  cross  upraised  its  head 
To  guide  galleons  that  drifting  wait 
A  breeze  to  sweep  them  through  the  Gate, 
To  where  but  hills  of  shifting  sands 
Lay  where  a  busy  City  stands. 

Then — sundown  on  a  Berkeley  height, 
And  fields  of  poppies  shimmering  bright. 


THE  DEMON  CLOUD 

DEMON  cloud  that  streaks  the  sky  with 

fire, 
Above  the  scalloped  tops  of  trees  to 

where 

A  city  lies,  across  gray  watery  space; 
A  crimson  cloud  of  restless  heart  desire, 
Of  things  one  knows  but  speaks  of  with  a  care, 
Low-voiced  and  secret,  with  a  warning  face, 
Those  whispered  thoughts  that  hurry  out  of  sight, 
Freighted  with  danger  for  the  coming  night ! 
The  thread-like  crescent  of  the  moon  peers  out 
Between  the  glowing  bars,  and  patient  bides, 
While  watching  for  the  crimson  cloud  to  fade, 
She  slowly  grows  the  brighter  for  the  rout 
Of  demon-hearted  scarlet  Thought  that  hides 
Within  the  interval  when  night  is  made; 
That  Twilight  of  temptation,  when  the  soul 
Feels  drawn  to  fiery  depths  beyond  control. 


OPALINE 


sky  has  an  opaline  sheen, 
Turquoise  melting  through  gold  into 

roseate  bloom, 
With  the  silver  flash  of  a  curved  blade 

of  a  moon 

Like  a  cimeter  sharp  and  keen. 
Where  over  the  glistening  Bay 
You  linger,  so  far  away, 
The  masses  of  purplish  blur 
Outline  the  City's  height, 
And  the  flashing  and  vanishing  lure 
Of  the  Alcatraz  light 
Is  like  a  mischievous  eye. 
Everything  's  fickle  and  changing,  like  opals, 

tonight, 
But  not  you  nor  I  ?   Not  you  nor  I. 


THE  LONE  TREE 

LONE  tree,  black  'gainst  a  luminous 

sky, 

And  the  red-gold  eye  of  a  moon 
That  peers  over  purple  upland  high. 
Then  the  faint  far  bit  of  an  old-time  tune 
That  flutters  out  from  some  distant  door; 
And  the  summer  day  will  return  no  more. 


8 


THE  CITY  OF  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

HIKE  some  demon's  wing,  of  a  monstrous 
size, 
Spread  a  flame-streaked  cloud  in  the 
western  skies, 

Above  a  mass  of  tree  and  spire, 
That  shows  as  black  as  night, 
While  below,  the  City  shore  is  bright 
With  gem-like  lights  from  a  thousand  eyes. 
Through  a  half-shut  lid  comes  peering  soon 
The  slim  bright  eye  of  a  silver  moon. 
She  plucks  the  feathers  of  sullen  fire 
From  the  wing-like  cloud  of  fading  ire, 
Until  she  reigns  supreme  in  her  might ; 
From  her  curved  throne  of  sapphire  height 
She  sheds  soft  peace  where  the  City  lies 
Asleep  but  for  those  thousand  eyes. 


A  FANCY 


IKE  a  draped  sarcophagus,  in  some  ancient 
princess'  tomb, 

Does  the  Maiden  mountain  loom, 
And  above  in  azure  gloom 
Is  a  slender  fiery  moon, 
With  a  single  glittering  star. 
Is  it  Tamalpais  or  Egypt  that  we  gaze  on 
from  afar? 


10 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  BAY 


crimson  pales,  and  gray  becomes  a 

blue 

Intense  and  pure,  illumined,  yet  serene, 
With  argent  tintings  of  the  softest  sheen, 
A  witchery  transforms  the  present  view, 
And  veils  it  in  a  gossamer  so  new 

That  shadowy  as  a  dream  all  things  are  seen, 
Yet  bright  beneath  an  amethystine  screen,  — 
And  life  takes  on  again  a  hopeful  hue. 
Illusively  the  fancies  of  a  past 

Flit  to  and  fro  within  the  silver  gloom, 

And  smooth  the  edges  of  the  present  woes  : 
The  leaden  burdens  of  the  day  we  cast 
Into  the  radiant  pathway  of  the  moon, 
And,  lion-hearted,  seek  a  cheered  repose. 


11 


IN  THE  SHADOW 

HIKE  some  dream  of  a  vanished  love- 
time, 
All  phantom-like,  dim  and  gray, 
Is  the  misty  Bay  and  the  mountains 
At  the  close  of  the  summer  day, 
Enwrapped  in  the  world  of  shadows 

Unreal  as  some  alien  shore, 
And  sad  as  the  smile  of  a  lover 
Who  is  beloved  no  more. 


12 


THE  TWO  MOUNTAINS 

'BOVE  the  Bay  two  mountains  rise 
And  pierce  the  fog-line  of  the  skies. 
The  Maiden  sleeps  with  restful  face 
Outlined  against  the  blue  of  space. 

So  has  she  slept  for  many  a  year 

Nor  feared  Diablo  frowning  near. 

She  takes  the  stranger  to  her  breast, 

And  shows  a  land  with  plenty  blest. 

Diablo  with  a  mighty  ire 

Holds  to  his  heritage  of  fire. 

He  strews  obstructions  at  his  feet, 

The  ardent  climber  to  defeat ; 

With  haughty  bluntness  claims  his  own, 

And  watches,  from  the  clouds,  alone. 


13 


WHEN  PORTOLA  CAME 

Portola  first  came,  he  tore 

e^  °^ an  °kscurity 

From  this  Bay  country's  gracious 

shore, 

And  gave  it  to  a  seeking  world 
In  all  its  virgin  purity. 
His  eyes  beheld  what  now  we  see. 
The  joy  he  felt  holds  endless  sway 
Of  pulsing  pride  in  countless  hearts ; 
For  what  he  claimed  is  ours,  today. 
The  veil  of  his  obscurity 
We  rent  for  our  fiesta  gay. 


14 


THE  ETERNAL  VERDURE 

'UNNY  slopes  with  wild  oats  waving, 
Starred  with  blue  and  glints  of  gold, 
In  your  soft  insistent  raving 
Do  you  mourn  for  days  of  old, 

When  the  feet  of  vanished  padres 

Trod  your  green  unbroken  way, 

And  Don  Gaspar,  gazing  o'er  you, 

Saw  the  shining  distant  Bay? 

All  those  mighty  ones,  historic, 

Long  have  slept  in  earthly  graves, 

But  the  green  eternal  verdure 

In  the  breeze  still  proudly  waves. 


15 


TAMALPAIS 

"  Only  man  knows  discontent." 

'RB  you  mourning  in  your  sleep,  maiden 

mountain, 

That  you  drape  your  head  in  grays  ? 
Is  it  thought  of  other  days 
That  have  fled  their  destined  ways 
But  to  vanish  into  spray  in  Time's  fountain? 
Like  Van  Winkle,  in  the  tale,  would  you  waken  ? 
Does  the  tread  of  climbing  feet 
Cause  your  waiting  heart  to  beat 
As  when  once  the  footsteps  fleet 
Of  the  Indian  hunter  trod  in  the  bracken? 

I  am  answered  as  I  gaze,  and  upbraided, 

For  the  gray  gloom  rolls  away, 

Moving  slowly  toward  the  Bay, 

And  your  sun-lit  slopes  display 
Green  content  with  the  depths  purple-shaded. 


16 


A  QUESTION 

still  keep  the  name  for  our  beautiful 
flower 
Of  one  who 's  not  seen  it  since  that  early 

hour, 

When  the  Russian  ship  Rurick  was  here  in  our  Bay, 
In  sight  of  hills,  poppy-hued,  just  as  today  ? 
Why  from  Dr.  Eschscholtz  not  the  honor  reclaim, 
Though  Camisso,  his  friend,  did  establish  the  name? 
It 's  not  spelt  phonetic ;  it  cannot  be  sung ; 
It 's  an  indrawn  breath  and  a  sneeze,  in  one : 

Eschscholtzia. 

The  old  Spanish  name,  when  the  century  was  young, 
Like  liquid  gold,  musically,  flowed  from  the  tongue. 
This  name  was  descriptive  of  shape  and  of  hue, 
Of  the  country's  great  wealth,  and  prosperity  due. 
'Twas  a  name  that  was  royal,  and  fitting  as  dower 
For  a  royally  tinted,  a  queen-poppy  flower ! 
It  makes  her  a-kin  to  our  old  missions  gray, 
Our  mountains,  and  rivers,  our  towns,  when  we  say: 

Copa  de  Oro. 


17 


COPA  DE  ORO 

OF  FLOWERS,  a  matchless  one! 
Nurtured  by  fog  and  sun, 
Seeded  from  golden  sand 
Dropped  from  the  miner's  hand, 
Thou  hast  in  silken  fold 
Blended  the  red  and  gold 
Of  skies,  when  suns  belate 
Drop  through  the  Golden  Gate. 
Hearted  with  Spanish  flame, 
Goblet  of  gold,  thy  name, 
Cling  to  the  foothill's  side 
Strong  in  thy  glorious  pride, 
Thou  hast  the  richest  ore, 
Found  on  this  golden  shore. 


18 


EL  CAMINO  REAL 


Royal  Highway  follows  the  shore, 
One  day's  length  from  each  Mission 

door; 
A  phantom  roadway,  when  day  has 

sped, 

For  it  echoes  to  the  patient  tread 
Of  gowned  ones  who  rest  and  pray 
Where  moonlit  ruins  mark  the  way. 
Their  flitting  shadows  rest  a  while 
'Neath  crumbling  arch  devoid  of  tile, 
While  others  at  each  new  bronze  bell 
Send  back  a  peal  that  all  is  well. 
If  you  would  tread  this  King's  Highway, 
It  's  free  to  all  throughout  the  day, 
But  those  who  have  a  better  right, 
The  phantom  fathers,  pass  by  night. 


19 


THE  OLD  GUITAR-PLAYER 

XN  A  corner  dim,  on  an  old  guitar, 
As  on  its  strings  she  played, 
Forgotten  memories  came  to  life 
In  the  old  adobe's  shade. 
Remembered  songs  had  a  wondrous  power, 
As  her  thin  brown  fingers  strayed, 
For  on  the  strings  of  my  heart,  alas, 
Not  on  the  guitar,  she  played. 

******* 

"With  dancing  rhythm  the  fantasy 

Of  old  fiestas  came  to  me. 

All  that  had  lived,  and  loved,  and  died, 

Once  sweet  and  gay  with  Spanish  pride, 

Now  lived,  and  throbbed,  and  passed  away, 

While  on  those  chords  her  fingers  lay. 

I'd  give — if  but  to  be  once  more — 

A  string  has  snapped.  The  dream  is  o'er. 


20 


THE  SPANISH  DANCER 

SCARLET  skirt  with  a  glittering  band, 
Black  velvet  bodice,  and  gay  fringed  sash, 
A  jaunty  bolero,  and  fan  in  hand, 
And  a  fragrant  rose  with  a  crimson  flash 

Peeping  out  from  behind  the  filmy  lace 

That  half-reveals,  half-hides  her  face. 

It 's  nothing  new  to  you. 

Her  dark  eyes  glow  with  youthful  fire, 
While  arching  feet  now  tap,  now  trip, 
Two  graceful  arms  wave  high  and  higher 
At  lithesome  bending  from  the  hip ; 
Kneeling,  bending,  leaping  quick 
To  the  castanets'  gay  click. 
It 's  nothing  new  to  you. 

A  whirl  of  skirts  and  flash  of  red, 
The  music  stops  with  lingering  hiss 
As  soft  as  her  remembered  kiss, 
The  saucy  Spanish  sprite  has  fled. 
But  underneath  the  bodice  gay 
She  hides  the  heart  she 's  danced  away. 
It 's  something  new  to  you. 


21 


TO  A  FIELD  OF  ESCHSCHOLTZIAS 

ARE  sunset  flowers  of  fiery  hue,  blending 
The  crimson  and  gold  of  the  day  that  is 

ending, 
You  seeded  from  dust  through  pioneer 

fingers 

To  be  a  reminder  of  glory  that  lingers. 
When  through  the  Gold  Gate  the  red  sun  is 

sinking, 

You  close  your  petals  like  sleepy  eyes  blinking, 
A  message  you  nod  with  haughty  grace  swaying 
Your  slender  green  stem  with  the  weight  of  the 
saying. 


22 


THE  PRESSED  FLOWER 


faded  flower  in  the  yellowed  book, 
In  its  dry  flatness  treasures  not  one  look 
Of  airy  grace,  on  slender  stem  once  bent, 
But  from  the  dried  reminder  floats  a  scent, 

So  delicate  but  still  so  real,  so  fine, 

The  picture  of  that  summer  field's  fair  view 

Rises  in  clearest  outline  — 

And  I  dream  of  you. 


23 


ON  THE  HILL 


are  strange  sweet  sounds  when 
the  day  is  o'er, 

The  sleepy  call  of  the  brooding  bird, 
The  lisp  of  the  insect,  and  the  blurred 
Distant  murmur  from  many  a  door; 
The  evening  hymn  of  mingled  cheer 
Is  a  harmony  good  for  the  soul  to  hear. 


24 


THE  PAUSE 

^-^•^HEN  the  Day  is  reminiscent,  and  her  gauzy 

m    •     •      k*ue  anc* rec* 

1    I    W  Drapes  about  the  throat  of  evening  when 

^A^       the  summer  sun  has  sped, 
All  the  world  that  cares  to  listen  hears  the  pausing 

of  her  heart, 
Like  the  weary  soul  that  lingers  half-reluctant  to 

depart, 
Or  the  wave  that  pauses,  poising,  on  the  margin  of 

the  sand; 
T  is  the  faltering  of  all  things  ere  they  seek  the 

Never  Land. 


25 


THE  SECRET 


a 


FOGGY  sky  with  a  stain  of  red, 

Grim  houses  guarding  a  down-hill  street, 

And  a  secret  sad  in  a  friend's  gray  life, 
Makes  the  world  like  a  cloistered  retreat. 


DEMI-JOUR 

OARK  hilly  masses  form  a  frieze 
Against  the  silver  sky, 
And  through  the  jetty  spurs  of  trees 
The  flower  of  night  draws  nigh; 
The  creamy  blossom  of  a  moon 
With  essence  of  a  lotus  bloom. 
As  one  more  day  swings  to  the  past 
Recalled  dreams  of  life  come  fast. 


A  NOCTURNE 

a  SPRING  nocturne  of  green  and  gold, 
Vivid  fields  with  cowslips  starred, 
The  sky  with  rose  and  violet  barred 
Where  moves  a  clear  moon,  slim  and 

cold. 

A  purple  mist  and  turquoise  deep 
Driving  the  ochre  shine  away, 
And  a  stretch  of  livid  gleaming  Bay. 
Beyond  the  rust-brown  house-roof  steep 
On  a  cowslip  hill  is  a  leafy  tree, 
With  dark  cool  shadows,  moonlight  tipped, 
And  there  a  maid,  so  tender-lipped, 
Is  waiting  alone  for  me. 


28 


THE  ONE  STAR" 

'HE  deep  blue  pool  of  a  summer  sky 
Is  bounded  by  vague  gray  hills,  afar, 
And  in  the  blue  is  a  single  star. 
"  The  one  star,"  a  poet  once  said, 
But  sweetheart  and  poet  sleep  with  the  dead, 
Yet  his  dream  of  the  star  will  not  die. 


29 


PORTOLA 

XF  FROM  that  strange  mysterious 
bourne 
The  early  governor  could  return, 
And  standing  on  the  hills  afar 
Hear  everywhere  of  Portote, 
Would  sometimes  glints  of  mighty  ire 
Show  in  his  dark  eyes'  glorious  fire 
To  hear  from  cities  by  the  Bay 
Of  Porto'la  and  Por'tola  ? 
Or  would  he  smile,  content  to  see 
The  glory  of  his  memory? 


30 


THE  DESERTED  CABIN 

'LL  MATTED  lie  the  damp  dead 

leaves 

On  sodden  paths  unmarred  by  feet, 
The  dust-grimed  windows'  shrouded 

gaze 

Obscures  an  emptiness  complete. 
The  rude  hearth  where  home-fires  burned 
Is  cold,  and  gray  with  ash  upturned. 
But  through  the  mass  of  matted  leaves 
Some  blades  of  tender  green  upspring ; 
The  tangled  garden  growth  is  warm 
With  hint  of  bud  and  flowering  thing ; 
And  round  the  cabin  windows  twine 
The  scarlet  buds  of  passion  vine. 


31 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  WIND 

ON  MOUNTAIN  top,  at  close  of  day,  I  gaze 
on  billowy  trees, 
I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  wind,  like  tide  of 
coming  seas; 
Far  down  below,  and  miles  away,  break  waves  in 

foamy  lines, 

But  echoing  over  waving  trees,  I  hear  the  roar  of 
pines. 

With  palsied  age  the  white-oaks  shake,  resisting 

with  their  might; 
The  red  Madrones,  like  Spain's  coquettes,  flirt  with 

the  changing  light; 
The  tasselled  Redwoods,  sensitive  to  lightest  gasp  of 

breeze, 
Are  quivering  with  a  tender  grace  amid  the  mass  of 

trees. 

Above,  around,  below  me  swells  the  rising,  restless 

tide, 

The  siren  call  of  mountain  wind,  Desire  at  her  side. 
Dry  leaves  are  gathering  near  my  feet,  in  pressure, 

close  and  strong; 
But  I  am  of  the  earth  no  more ;  I  hear  the  luring 

song. 


32 


The  damp,  sweet  breath  of  woods  upstirs  beneath 

my  restless  tread 
In  protest,  eloquent  but  vain — I  go  where  dreams 

are  bred ; 
Those  dreams  of  joy,  exalted,  pure,  that  on  the 

heights  abide, 
My  soul  upon  the  wild  wind  soars,  subservient  to 

that  tide. 


33 


THE  RIVAL 

SLASHING  of  yellow  and  dash  of  red, 
Swinging  rebosa  and  flirt  of  head, 
I  see  you  coming  with  dancing  feet 
To  where  the  shadows  kiss  as  they  meet, 
Querida,  my  querida  (beloved)  ! 

To  my  embraces  swiftly  you  run, 
Red-cheeked  amoura,  joyous-eyed  one ! 
The  breath  of  rapture,  love  meeting  flame, 
As  soft  your  warm  lips  whisper  my  name, 
Querida,  my  querida ! 

Clinging  the  closer,  your  lips  on  mine, 
I  am  soon  drunken  with  love's  sweet  wine, 
Blindfold,  enravished,  and  deaf  to  all  fear 
As  long,  beloved,  as  you  are  near, 
Querida,  my  querida ! 

Keen  is  his  anguish,  noiseless  his  hate, 
Flashes  his  blade  with  a  severing  fate. 
Dios!  We  stagger.   He  lies  at  our  feet. 
Adios,  dear  one,  until  we  meet, 
Querida,  my  querida ! 

Flashing  of  yellow  and  dash  of  red, 
Clinging  rebosa  and  droop  of  head, 
I  watch  you  going  with  anxious  heart 
To  where  the  shadows  kiss  as  they  part, 
Querida,  my  querida ! 

34 


THE  RISING  FOG 

SKY  with  brooding  fog-bank  gray, 
Mist-shrouded  hills,  and  gloomy  Bay, 
A  sun  that  hides  his  face, 
The  damp  of  winter  in  the  air, 

And  chilling  quiet  everywhere 

That  nothing  can  efface ; 

Then,  in  the  East  faint  blue  is  seen, 

While  hill-slopes  show  a  tender  green 

As  sun-rays  light  their  sides; 

The  western  sky  gleams  silvery  bright, 

The  Bay 's  a  crystal  line  of  light, 

A  dazzling  orb  now  blinds  the  eyes, 

And  mortal  spirit-levels  rise. 


35 


IN  LENT 

leaden  rain  incessant  weeps, 
The  gray-garbed  earth  with  moisture 

steeps, 

The  Easter-lily  hidden  sleeps 
In  lowly  prison. 

The  penitential  season  run, 
The  warmth  of  Heaven's  uplifting  Sun 
Draws  heart  of  Man  and  flower  as  one, 
For  Christ  has  risen. 


36 


EASTER  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 


weeping  heavens  but  complain 
Of  Mother  Earth's  extensive  pain  ; 
Through  Lent  she  doth  in  travail  lie 
That  fhiit  and  flower  she  may  supply. 
And  when  the  Easter  sun  shall  glow, 
The  land  a  beauteous  face  will  show, 
With  buds  outbursting  into  flowers 
As  radiant-hued  as  rainbow  showers. 
The  travail  crowned  with  joy  at  last, 
Forgotten  is  the  sorrow  past. 

******* 

On  ashen  heaps  the  flowers  bloom. 

O'er  hollowed  ruin  buildings  loom. 

The  quake  and  fire  feed  a  past  ; 

A  radiant  city  rises  fast, 

In  garments  of  a  newly  born 

She  greets  with  hope  the  Easter  morn. 


37 


THE  EARTHQUAKE  BABE 

DEATH  a  flame-lighted  sky,  amid  terror 
and  strife, 
He  had  breathed  out  his  first  feeble 
effort  of  life, 

But,  raised  from  the  chill  of  a  quiescent  breast 
In  the  arms  of  a  child-stricken  pity, 
He  had  builded  a  home  amid  homeless  unrest 
In  the  heart  of  a  ruin-strewn  city. 


38 


CALIFORNIA  VIOLETS 

O RAIN-WET  flowers!  I  culled  you  all 
To  drape  you  as  a  purple  pall 
On  a  wintry  memory; 
The  fragrance  of  your  sundered  lives 
With  subtle  influence  revives 
A  hope  of  Spring  to  me. 

Go,  breathe  the  thought  inspired  in  my  breast, 
And  bring  to  other  lives  a  Spring-tide  blest. 


39 


IN  CHINATOWN  SLUMS 

H E  cherry  orchard  was  bright  with 

bloom, 
A  wind  swept  through  the  fragrant 

trees; 

No  blossom  that  fell  was  fairer  than  she, 
While  he  was  the  blighting  breeze. 

In  a  pang  of  longing  for  girlhood  fled 

With  Love  that  blasted,  she  knew  not  how, 

She  donned  a  muslin  like  blossoms  shed; 
He  had  loved  her  once — he  could  save  her  now. 

He  was  showing  some  friends  through  Chinatown 
slums 

When  he  saw  her  face,  so  wistful  and  fair; 
He  smelt  the  fragrant  cherry-blooms 

In  her  belt  and  the  fluffy  mass  of  hair. 

"Turn  your  face  away."   He  cast  down  his  eyes 
As  he  saw  her  over  the  casement  lean. 

"  These  are  moral  lepers,"  with  pious  disgust, 
And  he  hurried  onward,  "unclean!  unclean!" 


40 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  SAUSALITO 


a  shady  road  is  winding  down  to 
Sausalito  Bay, 
There  's  a  little  girl  a-  walking  and  a- 

dreaming  all  the  way, 
While  the  sunshine-flecks  are  catching  at  her  wavy 

wind-blown  hair, 

And  a-kissing  dusty  dimples  in  her  arms  so  brown 
and  bare. 

Where  an  open  gap,  revealing,  shows  the  marsh 

land  silvery  green, 
Near  the  blue  Bay  with  its  islands,  and  beyond  the 

City's  sheen, 
She  's  a-standing  and  a-gazing  wistfully  across  the 

Bay; 
And  I  know  of  whom  she  's  dreaming,  little  wind 

blown  maid  in  gray  ! 


41 


THE  HUMAN  HEART 

heart  two  portals  opens  wide: 
One  to  the  friends  on  every  side ; 
But,  veiled  behind  a  curtain  thin, 
They  cannot  see  the  thoughts  within, 
Deep  in  a  corner  is  a  door: 
Here,  naught  obscuring  hangs  before, 
And  secrets  of  a  heart  lie  bare 
To  those  we  love;  to  those  who  care. 


42 


THE  MARSH 

DO  LONGER  is  the  marsh-land  a  thing  one 
might  despise, 
For  Summer  dipped  her  paint-brush  into 
the  depths  of  skies 

To  tint  the  low  expanses  with  roseate-purple  sheen. 
She  blued  the  pools  and  channels  with  clouded  tur 
quoise-green. 
And  now  the  bordering  mountains,  all  burned  a 

somber  brown, 
Devoid  of  Spring-time  color,  with  mighty  envy  frown. 


43 


NIGHTFALL 


the  meadow-larks  are  calling 
In  a  sweet  and  sleepy  way, 
And  the  busy  world  is  resting  after 
day, 

When  the  tired  hands  are  idle, 

And  the  mind  can  seek  its  play, 

Then  the  dreams  of  old  ambitions 

Come  with  sad,  resistless  sway, 

And  life  is  worth  the  while  ; 

For  the  weary  heart  can  smile 

At  all  the  petty  worries  of  the  day. 


44 


A  SEQUOIA  NUN 

OOWN  columned  cloisters,  dim  and  green, 
she  walks, 
A  nun-like  creature,  thoughtful,  sweet  and 
rare. 

Her  heart  attunes  to  matins  with  the  birds, 
She  hears,  head  bowed,  each  rustling  leaflet's  prayer. 
The  world's  frivolities  are  far  away 
In  distant  cities  gathered  round  the  Bay, 
And  life  of  Love  and  Strife  seek  not  this  maid 
Sworn  to  a  sisterhood  with  woodland  shade. 


45 


WOODLAND  LOVERS 


dying  summer's  breath,  sweet-scented, 
prayed 

For  happy  hearts  encouraged  in  her  shade. 

So  Indian  summer,  with  the  balmiest  days, 
Extends  the  limit  of  the  season's  plays. 
The  rustling  leaves,  down-dropping  to  the  feet, 
Whisper  that  days  are  flying,  heedless  one  ! 
The  crispy  dry  bits  'neath  your  steps  repeat 
"  Be  warned  !  "  for  soon  the  woodland  play  is  done  ; 
So  bind  your  hearts  while  still  is  fragrance  shed 
That,  in  the  rain  and  chill  when  summer's  fled, 
You  may  be  cheered  by  love,  and  then  recall 
The  tender  woods,  and  that  charmed  scene  of  all. 


46 


ST.  DOROTHY'S  REST 

^^p — XN  A  redwood  grove  its  glories  hide. 

1         There 's  a  rustic  cross  on  the  mountainside, 
S         By  mother-love  lifted,  pain-crucified; 

*~^      "x  A  bit  of  peace  on  a  mountain  crest 

Is  St.  Dorothy's  Rest. 

When  the  fire-light  shines  in  the  cheerful  gloom, 
The  pictured  child,  in  the  living-room, 
Smiles  down  on  the  health  and  joy  expressed 
By  the  crippled  children  in  the  nest 
At  St.  Dorothy's  Rest. 

The  brown  chapel  doors  have  opened  wide, 

For  the  halt  and  the  lame,  and  the  woodland  bride ; 

The  stream  of  life  is  broad  and  blest 

That  flows  through  the  gate,  with  rough  bark  drest, 

At  St.  Dorothy's  Rest ; 

For  when  the  birds,  with  their  chattering  gay, 

Make  love  in  Nature's  happiest  way, 

From  the  building  of  their  woodland  home 

Till  the  eggs  are  hatched  and  the  birdlings  flown, 

There  are  crippled  children  in  the  nest 

Of  St.  Dorothy's  Rest. 


47 


THE  WOODSMAN 

^-— ^HERE  once  Kit  Carson  trod  the  trail 

m    m    •     ^°  valley  depths  below, 

1    I    9  The  woodsman  drives  his  four-horse 

VmX       team 

With  many  a  hoarse  halloo. 
The  same  tall  pines  chant  ceaselessly 

As  when  in  Carson's  ear 
They  sounded  warning  requiems, 

But  the  woodsman  does  not  hear. 
The  blazoned  way,  the  granite  shapes, 

No  meaning  to  him  brings; 
He  takes  his  way  at  dusk  of  day, 

And,  fearless,  loudly  sings. 


48 


SNOW  ON  TAMALPAIS 

'LREADY  hint  of  flowers  show 
On  every  sloping  side; 
For  roses  blow, 
And  row  on  row 

The  scarlet  glow 

Of  hedges,  where  geraniums  hide, 

Leads  to  the  valley  side. 

Against  the  azure  sky  asleep, 

The  well-known  outlines  rise, 

But  white  and  deep ; 

A  silvered  heap, 

With  crystal  sweep, 

Now  drapes  her,  bride-like,  where  she  lies, 

The  Maid  of  Tamalpais! 


49 


AT  BRACKEN  BRAE 

HE  noisy  stream  with  grave  intent 
Hums  out  a  requiem  of  content, 
As  drifting  leaves  upon  its  breast 
Float  downward  to  a  peaceful  rest. 
The  frail  leaf  knows  one  season's  span, 
But  we,  of  the  great  Human  Clan, 
Brief  season  of  content  can  claim, 
Then  drift  to  much  we  cannot  name. 
How  many  by  this  fern-fringed  brink 
Have  stooped  from  brimming  cup  to  drink 
And  felt  the  heart  responsive  thrill 
To  droning  hiss  and  rushing  rill? 
Where  are  they  now?  The  stream's  reply 
Unchanging  rumbles  droning  by. 

The  Streams  of  Life  forever  flow 
Where  human  faith  alone  can  go. 
The  bright  Tomorrow  is  the  song 
Reechoed  as  they  flow  along. 
Eternity 's  the  minor  strain, 
Eternity 's  the  deep  refrain 
Of  woods  and  streams,  with  soft  regret 
Lest  we  weak  mortals  should  forget. 


50 


KINSHIP 

LONG  low  stretch  where  winding  rivers 

shine, 

The  sleepy  call  of  birds,  the  low  of  kine, 
A  toiler,  black  against  a  sky  aflame, 
'Look  at  this  picture.   Can  you  give  the  name? 

If  near  that  sailboat,  seen  as  if  on  land, 

A  windmill  stirred,  then  Holland  were  at  hand. 

If  loomed  a  camel  thwart  that  sunset  sky, 

A  distant  caravan,  and  palm  trees  high, 

It  would  be  Egypt  and  the  Nile,  no  doubt. 

It  is  our  San  Joaquin  with  these  left  out. 

A  long  low  stretch  where  winding  rivers  shine, 

The  sleepy  call  of  birds,  the  low  of  kine, 

A  toiler,  black  against  a  sky  aflame, 

All  men  are  kin ;  all  lives  and  views  the  same. 


51 


THE  OLD  TRAIL 

BLEACHED  gray  road  to  the  Divide 
Along  the  old  Kit  Carson  trail, 
Its  powdered  granite  dust  conceals 
The  gist  of  many  an  old-time  tale. 

The  feet  of  brawny  men,  close-pressed, 

Have  halted  to  defend  their  own, 

And  pathos,  love,  and  tragedy 

This  winding  trail  has  known. 

The  blazoned  tree-trunks  mark  their  graves, 

And  reminiscent  travelers  hear 

The  tall  pines  chant  a  requiem, 

In  memory  of  the  pioneer, 

For  many  strove,  and  loved,  and  died 

On  the  old  trail  to  the  Divide. 


52 


WOODLAND  GOSSIP 

HEAVENLY  quiet  brooded  o'er  the 

trees, 
My  thoughts  attuned  to  rustling  leaves 

and  breeze, 

Whose  kindly  whispers  set  my  doubts  at  ease ; 
When  hoarsely  rose  a  clamoring  of  crows 
Black-omened,  overhead  amidst  the  green, 
My  secret  they  proclaimed  as  gossips  will, 
But  I  cared  not  who  thought  it  well  or  ill, 
For  from  the  shadows  tripped  my  maid  serene. 


53 


AMBITION  AND  DUTY 

'MBITION  is  a  song  of  joy;  a  striving 
For  blossoms  far  above  the  normal 

ease; 

While  Duty  is  a  monotone :  a  weeding 
About  the  soil-tamped  roots  that  mother  these. 


54 


THE  EAGLE  DANCE 


young  braves  beat  with  muffled 
bone, 

The  old  squaws  drone  in  monotone, 
The  circling  dancer  giddy  swirls. 
Now  high,  now  low,  he  swings  and  whirls, 
Then  slow  his  winged  arms  extend,  — 
They  dip,  with  bird-like  swoop  they  bend; 
His  body  crouches  for  the  flight, 
Head  forward  thrust,  eyes  steely  bright. 

A  naked  body,  sinewy,  brown, 
An  eagle's  feather  tops  his  crown; 
Upon  his  lean  bare  arms  are  bound 
An  eagle's  wings.  There's  not  a  sound 
Escapes  the  straight,  unconquered  mouth 
Of  this  sad  Redman  of  the  south. 
The  visions  of  an  eagle  rise 
And  hide  the  curious  white  men's  eyes. 
Young,  bold  as  in  the  days  of  yore 
He  sees  the  mighty  eagle  soar. 

With  swoop,  and  dip,  new  energy 
He  dances,  dreaming  he  is  free. 


55 


THE  HIGH  SIERRAS 

O  MIGHTY  mountains,  misty-crowned 
and  bare, 
I  grieve  to  dwell  so  far  from  you;  so 
low 

I  cannot  raise  my  eyes  and  see  the  snow 
Upon  your  cloud-encircled  crests  in  air ! 
And  yet,  remembering,  I'm  with  you  there. 
Beloved  Sierras!  any  other  view 
Loses  its  charm  if  once  compared  with  you, 
And  longing  still  I  wander  everywhere, 
Your  lofty  grandeur  carved  upon  my  heart 
As  on  a  graven  tablet,  for  all  time, 
Unchanged,  and  durable  as  stone, 
With  influence  that  never  can  depart; 
For  petty  worries  shrank  from  the  Sublime 
That  voiceless  came  upon  me  there,  alone. 


56 


THE  JAPANESE  WIND-BELL 

OBELL  of  a  pagan  temple, 
That  with  Nature's  softest  sigh 
Breathes  a  prayer  of  a  Shinto  priesthood, 
What  mean  you  to  such  as  I  ? 
Can  you  tinkle  reverential  prayers  of  a  Christian 

kind 
With  all  those  gaudy  emblems  made  for  the 

heathen  mind? 
The  tri-shaped  blue  meant  Fugi, 

The  Sacred  Mount  of  Love, 
But  blue  and  Faith  are  symbols, 
\  And  Faith  can  mountains  move; 
The  strips  of  long  wistaria 

Are  gay  of  Hope  expressed ; 
The  flowered  squares  are  tokens 
Of  Charity,  world-blessed. 

So,  Bell,  with  your  tinkling  message, 

Breathe  many  a  double  prayer 
For  the  peace  of  the  One  and  the  Other 

Who  worship  with  you  there. 


57 


POSING 

'Y  DEAR  little  maid  of  Japan, 
A-flirting  and  twirling  your  fan, 
There  is  rouge  on  your  cheek, 
And  a  dimple  that 's  deep, 
O  quaint  little  maid  of  Japan! 

I'm  sure  that  your  gown  and  the  rest, 

The  sash,  and  the  gay  flowered  vest, 

E'en  the  fan  in  your  hand, 

All  came  from  the  land 

Of  the  coy  little  maid  of  Japan. 

You  're  posing  remarkably  well, 
And  really  I  ought  not  to  tell, 
But  the  hand  that 's  in  sight 
Is  a  trifle  too  white 
For  a  brown  little  maid  of  Japan. 

For  you  are  a  fraud,  I  am  sure, 

Though  your  looks  are  so  meek  and  demure, 

And  the  photo,  I  fear, 

Will  show  plainly,  my  dear, 

That  you  are  no  maid  of  Japan. 


58 


THE  SIERRAS 

'E  LOFTY  ones  whose  blunt  uplifted 

crests 
Show  purple-gray  through  distances  of 

blue, 

The  mighty  image  of  your  spirit  rests 
Upon  me  now,  at  memory  of  you, 
And  grayish  Trouble  glints  with  brighter  hue. 
How  often,  lying  on  your  rugged  breasts, 
Have  I  divorced  those  most  unwelcome  guests 
Called  Worriments.   Twas  as  you  said, 
"  To  thine  own  self  be  true." 
I  felt  your  ponderous  call  to  me, 
O  mighty  mountains  of  a  glorious  West ! 
And  like  the  Psalmist  lifting  up  mine  eyes, 
Absorbed  a  strength  from  heights  I  could  not  see, 
Absorbed  endurance  also,  with  the  rest, 
O  hoary-crowned  Sierras,  grave  and  wise ! 


59 


THE  WEST 

^^fc^^H  E  choicest  colors  the  eye  can  hold, 
4    C\  Turquoise  and  crimson,  purple  and 

V  J      gold' 

^^^       Glow  in  the  VSfest. 
The  finest  thoughts  when  the  day  grows  cold 
Bring  peace  and  hope  if  the  fretting  soul 

Looks  to  the  West. 

With  the  world  progressing  every  day, 
The  same  old  watch-word  paves  the  way, 
"On  to  the  West." 


60 


HERE  ENDS  BY  THE  BAY,  A  BOOK  OF 
VERSE  BY  LUCIA  E.  LORING  (SMITH). 
FRONTISPIECE  FROM  A  BAS-RELIEF 
MODELED  BY  BRADETTA  L.  SMITH. 
OF  THIS  EDITION  TWO  HUNDRED  #* 
FIFTY  COPIES  WERE  IMPRINTED  BY 
THE  TOMOYE  PRESS,  SAN  FRANCISCO, 
FOR  PAUL  ELDER  <§*  COMPANY,  UNDER 
THE  DIRECTION  OF  J.  H.  NASH,  IN  THE 
YEAR  NINETEEN  HUNDRED  #»  NINE. 


YC   14381 


740019 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


